


At War

by amandasong24



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Cutting, Drug Use, Early 20's aged AU, F/M, Femlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Mentions of Rape, Relapse, Self Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Trigger Warnings, dark and angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandasong24/pseuds/amandasong24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was fine.<br/>Until a text message sends Sherlock spiraling out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At War

**Author's Note:**

> This was written purely on a whim and in a fit of self-loathing, and I ended up liking it more than I intended so I wanted to share it with people. Sorry it's really, really dark and angsty.

Sherlock stood facing the mirror, shaking. She unbuttoned her purple shirt with trembling fingers and tossed it aside. She deftly tied back her tumbling black locks so she could see all the alabaster skin of her torso.  
She frowned at first at the black lacy bra she was wearing. Something she had subconsciously started doing about two months ago. A direct result of her relationship with John.  
Sherlock distracted herself by running a long finger over the thin, raised scars on her ribs and the inside of her arms. They were mingled with other misshapen scars she hated to think about. Normally they were all covered by her long-sleeved shirts. Instead of thinking about the deep-rooted scars, she focused instead on the small pinpoint ones on the inside of her elbows. She poked at the newest one, the memory of it tugging at her. John’s face as he came into the flat to find her shooting up. The disappointment that turned to anger as he stormed out on her. The text from her father that had made it all fall apart. ‘I know it’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. How are you?’  
It had thrown her off her stride in the middle of her case. She pulled away from John, wouldn’t tell him what was bothering her. Yelled at him so he wouldn’t come back to the flat immediately. Now she was relapsing.  
And John was gone. Never coming back. That’s what he’d told her when her addiction had gotten out of control a few months ago. She had to quit or he was leaving the flat. It was because he cared about her and he didn’t want to see her hurt herself anymore, to watch her follow this path of self-destruction. She didn’t want him to leave, so she’d gotten sober. She was doing so well.  
Now she had fucked up and he was going to leave without giving her a chance to fully explain herself. Even if he did give her a chance to explain, what could she possibly say? How do you find the words to explain it? She couldn’t tell him about that; she’d never told anyone about that. She didn’t want to scare him off, didn’t want him to know how broken she really was, in addition to how disconnected she was from normal people. Being so damn intelligent and so damaged had made interaction so difficult. She had never been able to connect with another person.  
Until John had come along. He was willing to listen, to learn, to have patience with her. He wanted to know her, he put up with all her antics. He heard every deduction, every solution and he thought her amazing.  
And now he was leaving her.  
Sherlock realized she was coming down from her high. She was thinking too much. She needed more. She couldn’t afford to keep thinking about the only person who’d ever really cared for her, and was now forsaking her.  
Though her hands had been shaking all evening, they steadied as she gathered her supplies. She felt disgusted with herself as she shot the cocaine into her veins and loosed her tourniquet. She usually preferred heroin, but the cocaine had been more readily accessible. And she didn’t want a full relapse.  
As she floated she couldn’t help but think about John Watson. How alone she was going to be now, again. But she had betrayed him, pulled away from him when he might have been able to help her. She had reverted to who she was before he’d come along. She’d disappointed him.  
That look he’d given her lingered in her mind. It hurt to see it even in her memories. She hated the hurt, the anger the exasperation he hadn’t even tried to hide from her. It cut her insides to see that he had given up on her.  
She had no one.  
No one but John had ever truly cared for her and she had managed to screw even that up.  
She hadn’t realized she had started fiddling with the throwing knife she had procured some time ago during a case. She preferred it over the other instruments she’d used over the years. She must have grabbed it out of its home in her nightstand drawer before she sat down, back against the door. Sherlock twirled it elegantly in her long fingers. She flipped it open and drew the sharp edge across one of the old scars on her ribs.  
The pain was sweet; a physical manifestation of the inner turmoil she was fighting.  
She was tired of the fight. Of trying so hard. Of taking so many steps forward just to take double the number back. Of hurting John. Of seeing him fight for her even though she was a lost cause.  
Seeing him defeated had been the end, her breaking point. He was her last shot and he was done with her. She’d blown it. There was no point in any of it anymore.  
The young woman pulled herself off the floor and sauntered to her nightstand. She grabbed the small stack of envelopes out of the false bottom of the top drawer and her favorite pen. Notes. She had always kept them, unsigned, waiting for when the time came. When John was around she had started to think it would never come. But now everything had changed.  
The first was for Mummy, so she knew that Sherlock didn’t blame her for anything, that this wasn’t her fault. The next for Mycroft to thank him for everything he’d ever done for her, so he knew shouldn’t shoulder any of the blame either. One for Lestrade, who had always kept an eye on her since they’d been at school. Mrs. Hudson, who had taken her in when there was nowhere else to turn.  
And John. She’d spelled out all the things she’d been feeling, all the things she couldn’t articulate in person. All the words she could never speak aloud. So he would know. She signed ‘I’m sorry it has to be this way. Yours Always, Sherlock Holmes’ and kissed the seal.  
Sherlock laid the letters on the sitting room coffee table so Mrs. Hudson would find them before she came across Sherlock. She fervently hoped that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t the one to find her.  
Sherlock returned to the corner of her room, playing idly with the knife. She considered slipping back into her shirt, but decided against it. This skin showed the story of her struggle; she didn’t want to cover it up anymore. She grabbed the covers off the bed and laid them neatly underneath her in hopes of not ruining the carpet. She shot the rest of the cocaine into her arm. It was a lot more than her body would be able to handle, but she didn’t want to feel anything anymore.  
Slowly, like a game, Sherlock dragged the blade across the pale skin of her inner arm. Lightly at first, but deeper as she moved farther down her arm.  
Although she should have been panicked, Sherlock was the most at peace she’d been in years. Her hands didn’t shake at all.  
~~~~  
John shoved his hands deep in his pockets. He was angry, disappointed, scared, worried, tired. Above all, he was tired. While he couldn’t quite work out how he was feeling, he did know one thing.  
He was done. He could no longer fight for Sherlock. He had given it his all. She had given him hope so many times just to turn around and dash it to the wind.  
He had believed in her. And she had proved him wrong time and again.  
‘That’s what you get for falling for someone that can’t connect with any other human beings.’ John squashed the voice in the back of his head. He was not in the mood for that.  
He dug his mobile out of his pocket and dialed Mycroft who answered on the second ring.  
“John,” he acknowledged.  
“I’m moving out. I can’t do it anymore, Mycroft. Every time I think I’m getting through to her, she shuts me right back out and pulls away. She was doing so well and then she just shut down while we were on a case today. When I got home she was shooting up! I can’t fight this fight anymore.”  
Mycroft was silent for a few moments. “I think it’s time we had a talk, John. You know how to get here.”  
“No, no talks!” John began to protest, but Mycroft had already disconnected. He sighed. When Mycroft wanted something he got it. John hailed a cab, giving the address; normally, Mycroft would send a car for him, but it was late and everyone was off the clock. The Holmes’ knew exactly how to play him. But he was done talking. He was finished with all of it. He rode silently in frustration across town.  
Mycroft welcomed him into the flat and offered him some bourbon. John declined and accepted some tea instead. Mycroft sat in the chair opposite John across the table, letting out a deep breath.  
“John, you are no doubt aware that Sherlock and I come from a particularly violent household.”  
John almost choked on his tea. He had surmised this, but neither of the Holmes children had outright told him this. They were very private about their childhood and family. All he could manage was a nod. This was not where he was expecting this to go.  
“I believe...that we reached a point where there are some very delicate matters that you need to be made aware of. The only reason I am telling you is because I know Sherlock won’t. Can’t. And I don’t think you fully appreciate just how much Sherlock needs you.”  
John was left absolutely speechless. He had no idea what was coming.  
“As I said, we grew up in a particularly violent house. Our mother wasn’t as bad as our father and I didn’t have it as bad as Sherlock. I was lucky. I was hardened by it early. Sherlock was broken by it. Her intelligence gave her a childish sense of wonder that irked our father so. I did my best to help her, to protect her, but there was really nothing I could do. Eventually he beat it out of her.”  
Mycroft paused, a dark look on his face. Regret. Sadness. Disgust. Revealing their familial secrets could not have been easy. John tried to wrap his head around all this. He knew there were reasons for Sherlock’s drug use, but he never imagined they were this severe.  
“It got harder and harder for Sherlock as she grew older. She had a defiant streak.” This brought a grim smiled to Mycroft’s lips, which was mirrored on John’s. “It didn’t make anything easier for her. And she grew to be prettier and prettier... And our father began to abuse her in other ways...  
“It got quite bad when I went away to university. She was the only one around to take his abuses. I wasn’t there to take care of her afterward. After I’d graduated I moved out completely, but I would come home to check on her occassionally. One weekend I came home and found Sherlock after she’d downed a bottle of pills. She had had enough. She saw no other way out. She was 16...The self-harm had never really stopped, but the drugs really started after that. I got her out that weekend, Mrs. Hudson took her in, but she still had a hard time. She’s always had a hard time. Since you moved in is the first time she hasn’t been in an almost complete state of self-destruction in the last eight years.”  
John’s head was spinning. Suddenly it all made sense. Sherlock’s massive intellect was only part of her problem. She had been isolated and harmed in every way by abuse. She had no reason to trust people. She had never really been shown the good in people, not even in her own family. She even saw Mycroft, who had often been her savior, through abused eyes. She was fighting demons he could not begin to imagine.  
The young doctor buried his face in his hands, having a hard time truly comprehending the magnitude of the situation, and feeling like a complete arse. Sherlock had been through so much was still fighting so much, and he had turned his back on her.  
John accepted the freshly poured bourbon now, and Mycroft directly addressed him again. “She needs you, John. She may not say it, or really even show it in a conventional way, but you are the first person she’s ever truly trusted and the only one she’s connected with. She is trying so hard to be better for you, but she can’t do it on her own.”  
John rose and downed what was left of the liquor. “I can’t believe I was so stupid. I have to get back to her.”  
“That’s probably for the best,” Mycroft agreed. He showed John out, and he hurried across town back to the flat in another cab Mycroft had given him the fare for.  
It was late upon his return, and the flat dark. He climbed the first set of stairs silently and decided to poke his head in to check on Sherlock, make sure she was alright. She probably wasn’t even asleep. Maybe he’d even get to apologize. He tiptoed across the sitting room and knocked lightly on the door before he nudged the door open.  
The scene on the other side of the door was not what he’d been expecting. The drug equipment was scattered by the door. The bed stripped, the spread laid out in the corner. A shirtless Sherlock leaning, slumped against the wall, bleeding out of her arm.  
John tore across the room, grabbing the already ruined comforter and pressing it to Sherlock’s forearm. The woman let out a small whimper of pain.  
“Sherlock, Sherlock come back to me,” John urged as he dug for his phone. He called for an ambulance. He was starting to panic. She had lost so much blood. By some miracle, he finished giving them all the information coherently, and they were on their way. John’s main concern became getting Sherlock conscious. He couldn’t believe how calm he had become. He pulled the small woman into his lap, stroking her tied-back hair, and cradling her against his chest. He kept a gentle pressure on her arm. “Love, please I’m right here. Stay with me. I’m not going anywhere. You just have to come back to me. Oh, please, please, please, please. C’mon, just be alright.” He kissed the top of her head and held her close. He didn’t even care what it meant, if it brought her back to him, it didn’t even matter.  
When John heard the sirens approaching he scooped the girl up and carried her and the comforter to the living room. The paramedics brought a stretcher in and took her out of John’s arms, though he was reluctant to let her go. John didn’t stop to explain anything to Mrs. Hudson on the way out- his only concern was staying with Sherlock.  
The next few hours were the longest of John’s life. He paced the waiting room; sat there, tapping his feet, impatient, while they got her stabilized. At some point Mycroft had joined him, bringing him a clean shirt and jumper, taking the bloodied ones away.  
Finally they allowed him into see her. She was unconscious, and could be for a long time. She had overdosed as well, and her body had reacted badly to it. John sat with her, speaking to her, and promising her that he was never leaving her again. He held her cold hand, stroked her long hair- all the things he could to show her he cared, even if she couldn’t recognize it. After a few hours, they tried to make him leave. Mycroft fought with the staff for him. He wasn’t going anywhere.  
He stayed by Sherlock’s side for the next three days. He couldn’t eat, didn’t really sleep. Occasionally he would put his head down on the side of the bed for an hour or two. Mycroft was always floating around. On the second John could hear a row brewing outside the closed door. Mycroft was fighting with a man whose voice John didn’t recognize. Something about the strange man not having any right to be here and that this was entirely his fault.  
John didn’t move. He couldn’t fathom anything else while Sherlock was just lying there, still so broken. The memories of her ruined skin haunted him, knowing what she had been though. He couldn’t believe he had been so thoughtless.  
He grew more and more anxious as the days went by. He was beginning to be afraid that he was truly losing her, and he couldn’t deal with that. Anything but that. He hadn’t told her all the things he’d meant to, wanted to, needed to. Every time his thoughts turned here, his hands would begin to shake. He couldn’t bear the thought of her dying without her knowing how much he cared for her. The thought would cross his mind and he would do his best to ignore it.  
On the fourth night he put his head down on the bed, praying for one more miracle, praying that Sherlock would be alright when he woke.  
~~~~  
Sherlock’s arm tingled. She felt heavy. She couldn’t move. There was something poking into the back of her hand. Something was under her nose. She was confused. Her eyelids resisted as she tried to open them.  
Her senses reached out. She was between cotton sheets with a heavy blanket laid over top. She was dressed in a rough gown, tied in the back, her legs bare. The place smelled clean. Sterile. There was a slight pressure on the bed just to the left of her hips.  
Hospital. She was in the hospital.  
She tested her fingers, her toes. She managed to force her eyes open. It was dark, light filtering in through the window in the door on her left. She tilted her head down to her left to see what the pressure was.  
John’s dirty blonde hair was resting on the bed, his face turned away from her. His hand sat open near hers. Sherlock picked her hand up to gently stroke his hair, but the heart rate monitor clipped to her index finger was cumbersome. She put her hand on his head and the apparatus bumped against his skull. She kept her fingers in his hair, too tired and lacking the self-awareness to be bothered. He stirred and turned his head over, looking up the bed towards Sherlock.  
She couldn’t even be bothered to stop touching him. She wanted to make sure this was real, that he was really here next to her. And if this was some kind of dream then she could do what she wanted. It wouldn’t make any difference. Either way, she wanted to touch him, to feel his warmth. He sighed and his eyes fluttered open, their clear blueness locking onto Sherlock’s, flooding with relief.  
“Sherlock,” he muttered, still sleepy.  
“John,” she replied, a small smile tugging her lips upward. “You’re here.”  
The young man bit his lip. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
Sherlock dropped her arm, which was starting to throb. She raised her right hand to her face to cover her trembling lips. John lifted his head off the bed.  
“Love, what’s wrong?” He put a hand on her shoulder. She shook her head and blinked back tears, but her whole body began to tremble. John sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around the small, fragile, woman who was so childlike at this moment. She reached a hand up to his chest to grip his jumper.  
Carefully John scooped the thin girl up, slid into the bed and put her in his lap, cradling her gently against his chest. He was worried he might break her if he held too tight, but honestly, he just wanted to crush her to his chest. Her left arm rested awkwardly on her stomach. The other remained clutching at John’s chest.  
“Are you in pain, dear?” he asked. She shook her head again, unable to speak.  
“I thought I’d lost you,” she choked out finally.  
The statement sent a stab of guilt through John’s chest.  
“If I can help it, I’m never leaving you again,” he whispered. This sent Sherlock into hysterics as she sat in John’s lap, crying into his chest. He held her gently, letting her get it all out. When she calmed back down they just sat in silence.  
“I’m sorry,” she whispered eventually. “For everything. There were just so many things I didn’t know how to tell you about. So many things...” Sherlock was again at a loss for words.  
“I know, love...Mycroft and I had a talk,” John admitted. It would be easier for Sherlock if she knew he knew. Sherlock’s brow furrowed and she thought for a few moments before responding.  
“So you know how ruined I am.”  
“Sherlock...”  
“I’m broken. Damaged goods, John. I know that,” she replied. Her voice became the smallest John had ever heard it. “So if you want to leave now, I understand.”  
“What?” John was taken aback. He sat the small girl up, holding her by the shoulders and looking into her aquamarine eyes. “You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. A few skeletons in your closet does not make you ruined. You are smart. You are beautiful. You are incredible. I love you, every bit of you, and nothing is going to change that.”  
Even as he was saying the words John found himself a bit surprised but filled with the truth of what he was saying. Pain and relief flooded Sherlock’s clouded eyes.  
“John....” Tears welled in her eyes. She cupped his cheek with her right hand. “Do you really mean that?”  
“Would I ever lie to you, Sherlock? I’m not that stupid, and you would see through me in an instant.”  
It was almost too much for the detective. She leaned forward, her forehead resting against the army doctor’s. Her strong, steady, wonderful army doctor. She was trying to put into words all the things she was feeling. She realized there was one thing she could say.  
“I love you too. So much,” she whispered, shaking her head just slightly in disbelief at the whole situation. They sat together like that for ages.  
Then suddenly John’s lips were pressing against Sherlock’s. His hands slid gently down to her waist, pulling her body close against his. Sherlock went to tangle her hands in John’s hair, but her arms were restrained by her IV. Their eager lips parted and Sherlock pulled back, sighing. She rested her forearms on John’s shoulders discontentedly. She hissed, grimaced, and lifted her left arm. It was on fire all of the sudden. John realized how drained and weary she looked.  
He smiled grimly and lovingly stroked her hair with the back of his hand. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead chastely before her laid the girl back down and covered her. He brushed her hair back and cupped her cheek, sliding out of the bed.  
“John, I hurt everywhere,” she yawned miserably. John frowned. He turned to leave the room but the girl caught his hand. “Don’t leave me,” she whimpered. She felt so pathetic, but she didn’t want him to go anywhere.  
“I’ll be right back,” he promised. “I’m going to get a nurse for you. And your brother will want to know you’re awake.”  
Sherlock grimaced. “I don’t want to see him yet.” She sounded scared. And guilty. It hurt John to see her in such a state; she was normally so composed and stoic.  
“No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to.”  
“I love you,” she whispered. John smiled at her.  
“I love you,” he reminded her. In that moment Sherlock could not take her eyes off John. Her rock, there to take care of her. And while earlier it had felt like everything had come to end, she knew that right here was just the beginning.


End file.
